


Breaking the Rules

by Evilpixie



Category: DCU
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasy Fulfillment, M/M, Prostitution, Sadism, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:02:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5948263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilpixie/pseuds/Evilpixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 'what if' spin off from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3235163/chapters/7046336">The Boy with A Dragon Tattoo</a> as requested by <a href="http://sutefanii109.tumblr.com/">sutefanii109</a> on tumblr.</p><p>Tim, now an established porn star working the top levels of Wayne Manor: BDSM Showroom, finally decides to take Ra's al Ghul up on his offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking the Rules

**Author's Note:**

> As before there is a lot I have not tagged. Be aware that this universe is not an accurate portrayal of BDSM but rather a fun wee fantasy where I explore some kinks that aren't written about as often. Please read with caution and don't expect any temperature play. Every Dom in this world has a different thing and that (along with total domination) is Jay's thing.

Tim sat in the back of the taxi, his backpack on his lap, and wondered how he would ever explain this chapter in his auto-biography.

 

He wasn’t poor. No, he made enough money working at the bottom floor of Wayne Manor to be the only person he knew his age who owned his own apartment and was thinking he might fly to London on his week off next month to see the crown jewels. He wasn’t mentally unstable either. Despite the stigmas floating around his lifestyle like flies around a corpse he had never been happier than he was now as a professional kinkster. How, under those circumstances, could he justify what he was about to do? How could he begin this chapter without seeming selfish, thrill seeking, or just plain stupid?

 

The taxi pulled up outside the hotel and the meter bleeped to a stop at thirty three dollars and nineteen cents. He fumbled with his credit card, had to try twice to punch the correct code into the machine, and said a stiff thank you to the driver as he climbed out of the car with legs that felt like they were made out of both cotton wool and cement.

 

It wasn’t until his feet hit the pavement and the car moved away behind him did he feel the bubbling uncertainty inside him start to clock over into fear. He was here. He was doing this _. Oh God._ He was _actually_ doing this. Why was he doing this? Why he did feel like he needed to do this? Why wasn’t he chasing the taxi down the road and screaming for it to stop and take him back home?

 

He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to walk up the mosaic brick driveway and push to the revolving front door into the hotel foyer. It was breathtaking. The floor made up of dark green marble, walls lined with gold pillars, and roof circular around the imposing shape of a glass chandelier. At the far side of the room a single elevator stood.

 

He hurried over to it, pressed the upward facing arrow, and waited.

 

Nothing happened.

 

He pressed again.

 

Still nothing.

 

It wasn’t until that moment he saw the card scanner sitting beside the buttons glaring at him with an angry red light.

 

“You need a room key to activate the elevator.”

 

He turned and saw the receptionist watching him from behind a massive marble topped desk. She looked him up and down with poorly disguised distaste.

 

“I… eh…” he picked his way nervously towards her, groped in his back pocket, and pulled out Ra’s dog eared business card. “I am here to see Mr Ra’s al Ghul.” He showed it to her.

 

The woman looked at the card. Looked back at him.

 

“He’s, um, expecting me.”

 

Her face did not shift and she picked up the phone. “Who might I tell him you are?”

 

“Tim,” he said lamely.

 

“Tim?”

 

He nodded.

 

Her lips thinned. “Tim _who?_ ”

 

“I… oh… eh…” in a flash of panic he realised he probably shouldn’t use either his actual or his stage name. Both could be tracked back to him which – considering his purpose here was to commit a crime – was too much of a risk. He needed another name. A fake name. A name that still sounded real. “T-Tim…” his gaze flew frantically back and forth across the desk until they locked onto a pen sitting on the desk beside her. “Pen.”

 

“Tim Pen?” She echoed.

 

“Y-yeah,” he practically squeaked.

 

For a heart stopping moment he thought she was going to slam down the receiver and tell him to leave. _Tim Pen?_ She would say. _What kind of idiot do you think I am? Get out of here before I call the police. Find some cheap motel like all the other boy whores._ But instead she plugged in a zero before the room number Ra’s had written on the back of the business card.

 

It rang four and a half times before it was picked up.

 

“Hello Mr al Ghul,” the woman said with all the respect and cheer she’d kept reserved from Tim. “I have a Mr Tim Pen here to see you… yes. Yes of course. That’s no problem at all. We’ll make sure to have all that arranged for you… Yes. That won’t be a problem… Good. I’ll send him right up.” She held the phone until the line disconnected and then dropped the receiver back on its station.

 

Looked at him.

 

“Can I…” he motioned towards the elevator.

 

She stood, picked up a swipe card, and stepped out from behind the desk to walk over to the lift. It activated with a tap and he ducked inside grateful to escape the spotlight of her gaze. Once the doors were closed he punched in the correct floor number and felt his stomach drop out of him as he was thrown up to the penthouse.

 

When he stepped out of the lift there was only one door. It stood at the end of a short corridor between to leafless pot plants. The number on it was an imposing triple nine.

 

He knocked.

 

Waited.

 

Knocked again.

 

When the door opened he was shaking.

 

Ra’s looked as he always did. Slicked back silver hair, long hooked nose, and cruel chiselled features. Like Tim imagined a bird of prey would look if it had been transformed into a man. His clothing did nothing to dispel this idea. A grey robe that showed the plume of hair on his chest, bloomed out like wings around his arms, and came in with a tight knot at his waist. When the man smiled his teeth were oddly sharp. “There you are, little dragon.”

 

Tim tried to swallow his nerves and smile in a way that Timmy Drake would smile. He knew from the savage satisfaction that flashed across the other man’s gaze that he had failed. As much as Ra’s enjoyed the fantasy world Bruce had built at Wayne Manor he enjoyed penetrating it – getting under his skin and seeing him break character – more.

 

“Come in,” the man stepped away from the door and Tim walked slowly into the dim room beyond. He felt like a lamb walking into the lion’s den and jumped when the door slammed closed behind him. Trapped. He was trapped. Trapped with the man that had been borderline obsessed with him since he first saw him strip on stage at Wayne Manor.

 

Ra’s didn’t waste a second. He stepped forward, seized Tim’s face in his hand, and pulled him into a crushing kiss. Teeth scraped against his lips, a tongue pushed dangerous deep into his mouth, and nails dug into his jaw. Ra’s moaned and Tim’s shook as the man forced his mouth open wider… the action igniting the conflicting feelings inside him into a storm of fear and doubt. For months he had danced for the man, showed him every part of himself in the most explicit way possible. For weeks after that he had had sex while the man watched. But never had he let the man take him. Never had he handed the power. Never had he let himself belong to Ra’s.

 

Until now.

 

The man pulled back after a moment and grinned. Whatever he saw on Tim’s face he evidently liked. A lot.

 

“Your money is on that table over there,” the man nodded to the side. Tim let his gaze flick left to take in the low glass coffee table. A fat envelope sat in the middle of it. His payment for tonight.

 

 _Whore_ , a voice in the back of his head said. _Prostitute. Law-breaker. Hooker._

 

The thoughts revolted him as much as they aroused him.

 

And that, he finally had to admit, was why he as doing this. He wanted this. He wanted to break the rules. He wanted to be bought and paid for. He wanted to – for one night at least – be a whore. An _actual_ whore. Not just a porn star playing the role but a body for hire.

 

“There is also a list,” Ra’s went on. “You have three minutes to look it over and then discuss with me if you need to make any amendments.”

 

“A list?” He rasped.

 

“Yes.”

 

Ra’s let go of him and Tim staggered numbly toward the table. He set his backpack down beside the sofa and sat to look at the piece of paper sitting fresh from the printer before him. It wasn’t like the contracts he was used to receiving at Wayne Manor. There was no pages of legalities or handing over of his image. There was no clauses or sections or places for him to sign. There was just a parade of words marching in two columns down a single white piece of paper.

 

The words there were not what he expected. No crops, no paddles, and no whips. Not even any floggers.

 

Ra’s had requested the use of three things.

 

Ropes. Canes. Knives.

 

Tim felt himself seize up in terror. _Knives?!_ Further down the list it said blood play. _Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck_. Ra’s didn’t just want to do a tie-me-up-and-beat-me scene. He wanted to do a knife scene. A _blood_ play scene. Tim wasn’t sure he was ready – would _ever_ be ready – for that. It was the one thing he _always_ crossed off Jason’s contracts. Hitting was one thing but _cutting?!_ Drawing _blood?!_

 

He looked up to where Ra’s was sitting on the sofa opposite him.

 

“I am skilled with rope,” the man said, as if _that_ was the problem with the list. “I know it’s much more dangerous than leather restraints or handcuffs but I find it far superior and have been training with it for almost two decades now. You’ll be safe in my ties.”

 

“Safe?” He croaked. _Safe while you cut me open?_

 

“Yes,” the man went on. “I have never seen anyone use rope on you yet so I can assume it’s something you’ve never done before. This, I admit, was part of the reason why I wanted to try it. To be your first… even if it’s just your first rope top.”

 

Tim stared. Didn’t say a word.

 

The man pursed his lips. “I can assure you I’ll keep you on the ground at all times and won’t use any dangerous ti—”

 

“You want to cut me,” he said the words almost like an accusation.

 

“Yes,” Ra’s admitted easily. Didn’t elaborate.

 

“With a _knife_.”

 

“I don’t like razors, scalpels, or needles so yes, with a knife.”

 

“Oh…” he wasn’t sure what he was meant to say to that. “Oh I… I…” licked his lips. This was not going as planned.

 

Ra’s smiled a cool satisfied smile. No doubt enjoying his very real hesitation. A far cry from Timmy Drake, Wayne Manor’s favourite snarky sub.

 

He sucked in a deep breath. Looked at Ra’s. “I don’t do blood.”

 

“You don’t do blood?” The man echoed.

 

“No.”

 

“I’m skilled at knife play… and I enjoy blood.”

 

“But I’ve never…”

 

“You won’t even try it?”

 

“I…”

 

“Not even for twenty thousand dollars?”

 

He glanced over at the envelope.

 

 _Would_ he do it for twenty thousand dollars? Would he _really_? It’s not like he had no idea what he was getting into. He had seen knife play before at the manor. Harley liked to play the nurse from time to time and carve step ladders into second floor submissives while the guest speaker Dr Hugo Strange had given a live demonstration in the class he gave to the dungeon performers last month.

 

It was risky but… not as risky as most of the temperature play he’d done with Jason… not even close… What’s more, by all account, the sensation was actually less intense than most heavy impact play. He could take a carbon fibre cane, being held underwater in an ice bath, and a flaming bullwhip… could he take a knife?

 

Ra’s looked at him.

 

He looked at Ra’s.

 

Made his choice.

 

“Don’t cut the tattoo.”

 

_Oh God oh fuck oh no. He was agreeing to this? He was **actually** agreeing to this?_

 

Ra’s smile was that of a predator snatching up prey. “Oh no. Not that. Never that.”

 

Tim fought to stay in control of his featured and made a show of studying the paper in his hand. His gaze kept snagging on the same words. Over and over again. Ropes. Canes. Knives. Ropes. Canes. _Knives_. Ropes. Canes. _Blood_. Ropes. Canes... It was almost a mercy when something else caught his eye.

 

“Bare backing,” he muttered.

 

“Yes,” Ra’s said. His voice still the same easy tenor as before. “I don’t like barriers.”  


By barriers he meant condoms. Tim swallowed. “Do you have a clean SDI screen with you?”

 

“Yes.” The man pulled out his phone and passed it to Tim. It was an email from a doctor’s office with the necessary documentation attached. Tim quickly copy pasted the doctor’s address into google and found the GPs site. It looked legit.

 

“I don’t have my screen,” he said slowly.

 

“I don’t care.”

 

Tim looked up. “I’m a porn star. You’re not worried?”

 

Ra’s laughed. “You forget. I know how often porn stars legally have to undergo STI screens. I also know Mr Wayne. He’s the kind of man to make sure you get tested twice as often as that.” The man’s gaze was black. Hungry. “The only safer place to put my cock would be in a virgin.”

 

Tim fought back a blush and finally set both the page and the phone back on the table. “Okay um… Okay. You don’t have to use a condom.”

 

An uncertain pause.

 

“Is there anything else you would like to negotiate?”

 

Tim jerked his head from side to side.

 

“Very well,” Ra’s pointed to the open space in the middle of the room. “Take off your clothes and kneel there. Hands behind your back.”

 

Tim stared for a moment. He wasn’t used to protocol dominants. Jason would sooner grab Tim’s neck and drag him into positon while Dick would… well… Dick would tie him up and tickle him while sprouting cheesy one liners. It felt oddly alienating to be told to assume a position rather than be forced into one. Like he was expected to surrender his power rather than have it taken from him.

 

He stood, picked up his backpack, and carried it over to the spot Ra’s had indicated. There he kicked off his shoes and slowly pulled off the baggy shirt and jeans that he had been using to hide the evidence his last show had left on his skin.

 

Ra’s made an appreciative noise as Jason’s bite marks were revealed marching down his shoulder and chuckled as he saw the bruises still lingering in his inner thighs. “You’ve been busy, little dragon.”

 

He didn’t remind Ra’s he had been there – sitting front and centre in the audience – when The Red Hood had done this to him. He just carefully folded his clothes, set them aside, and moved to kneel in the middle of the mat.

 

The rope came first.

 

Ra’s brought it out from the back room and laid it down before him. One at a time. Perfect figures of eight. Each identical and somehow frightening for it.

 

When they were all laid out Ra’s took a criminal amount of time selecting which one he would use first. Finally making his choice he moved behind Tim, breathed hot and heavy against the back of his neck, and coiled it around his wrist.

 

Tim closed his eyes and focused on the strange sensation of the rope tightening piece by piece around him. It was slow and sensual in a way that simple cuffs and buckles were not. The feel of the woven fibre explicitly erotic, the pressure of the knots rolling against him like a deep tissue massage, and the tingle in his fingertips a quiet pleasure. Even the pinch as Ra’s worked his fingers under the rope to pull it through again sent a strange flood of wanton relaxation through him. The glide of the long length against him alighting nerves he didn’t know he had.

 

Usually in a scene he would struggle. Test the restraints. In rope he surrendered… melting into it more and more as it tightened first around his arms and then his legs. Locking him into a kneeling position with each hand cupping the opposite elbow behind his back.

 

It was then he shifted in the rope. It tightened as he tested it. A quiet threat.

 

 _Don’t struggle,_ it said _. I will tighten. I will hurt._

_I may even harm._

 

He let out a shuddering breath.

 

Ra’s chuckled and move away across the room. Tim watched him. Watched as he came to a stop at the ornate mantelpiece, took a box off it, and turned to face him.

 

“You know what is in here, don’t you.”

 

It wasn’t a question.

 

Tim nodded anyway.

 

The knife the man pulled out was as long as his forearm, curved, and sharpened to a shine on the long edge.

 

Tim felt all the muscles in his stomach contract with a potent mix of fear and arousal at the sight of it. _Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…_ Ra’s knelt down in front of him and touched the tip of the knife to Tim’s chin. Used it to gently tip his jaw back, exposing his throat.

 

He let out a small terrified sound.

 

“You are a very beautiful creature,” the man breathed. “I think you know that… but I’m not sure you believe it.”

 

Tim barely dared to breathe. That knife a sharp deadly point under his jaw.

 

“Tell me what you are.”

 

“I’m…” he rasped. Barely moving. “Um…”

 

“It starts to with B.”

 

“Beautiful,” he croaked.

 

Ra’s laughed. “Yes. That’s right. And what am I?”

 

“Powerful,” Tim whispered.

 

“Good.” He took the point of the blade from his throat and ran the blunt side down his sternum. Over his collar bone, between his abs, and – gently – over his penis. The cold touch of metal against him was more terrifying than it was painful but still left a long pink line of unbroken skin from the nape of his neck to the slit of his dick. A neat section as artistic as the ropes that held his arms and legs behind his back.

 

Ra’s studied that line, made a low satisfied sound, and brought the knife up again to ghost it along the edge of Tim’s ribs. His skin shivered and – to Tim’s horror – he let out a strangled sob.

 

None of this was physical. He took much worse physical abuse every time we walked onto stage with Jason. Hell, he took much worse physical abuse when Dick scraped his nails down Tim’s chest during sex. This was all mental. This was all fear. This was… all consuming.

 

When Ra’s slid the blade from hip to hip he felt the tears roll over his lashes and splash down his cheeks. “Please…” he whispered. He didn’t know what he was begging for. He didn’t know if he was asking for it to stop, for it to continue, or for Ra’s to turn that knife around and touch the sharp edge to his flesh. “Please…” But he had to ask. To beg.

 

Ra’s lifted the blade up and touched it to Tim’s lips. Slowly turned it. Slowly brought the very tip to rest against his bottom lip. Held it. He held it there for what felt like an age. Pinning Tim’s lip back against his teeth… Then he cut him.

 

Tim sucked in a sharp breath as he felt the hot trickle of blood flow over is lip and seep onto his chin.

 

Ra’s watched. Eyes fixed on the nick with a deep dark fascination. “How does it feel?”

 

“Stings,” Tim confessed and then hissed in pain as the knife cut a second nick just under the hollow in his collarbone. Before he had time to recover Ra’s was lining up the knife again. This time with his right nipple.

 

“Hh— _wait!_ I…”

 

Ra’s cut him.

 

Tim felt his eyelids flutter as the sharp sting triggered a wave of tingling sensation that trickled from the cut up his spine into the base of his brain. The fear and the need coming together in a chemical cocktail that nudged him urgently toward a strange sensitive subspace so different from the one he usually brushed against when being brutalised by Jason.

 

As if reading his mind, Ra’s spoke. “The Red Hood does a good job with you,” he said running the blunt edge of the knife carefully along the series of bite marks Jason had left along his collarbone. “But sometimes he is just a little too… _messy_ for my tastes. A little too brutish. A little too _primal_.” The knife moved down with a fluid grace to cut an identical mark into his left nipple as was on his right. “He forgets about the _aesthetics_.”

 

Tim rolled his head forward and keened through his teeth.

 

This was not like impact play. This was not pain that flared hot and went away. This pain stayed. Persistent. Sharp.

 

Again. “Please…”

 

Ra’s studied him. Eyes dark. “That, little dragon, is a very nice aesthetic.” He left two long cuts over his floating ribs first on one side than the other. Each nick put in place with surgical precision and replicated with perfect symmetry. More followed.

 

Two either side of his belly button.

 

A horizontal line above his penis.

 

Then on his foreskin. A painfully small nick.

 

A fresh flood of tears and a strange prickle of humiliation that – despite its relative familiarity – somehow didn’t do nearly as much as the stinging pain to start filling the flaccid organ. _He was getting hard. From cutting. Not from being beaten, fucked, or called a good little slut but **cutting**. Oh God. He liked cutting._

 

Ra’s picked up Tim’s dick, tugged it twice, and held it up to leave a matching cut on the underside of his foreskin and a second on the line between his balls. Somehow the almost tender application of damage so much more embarrassing than if the man had simply slashed the marks into place.

 

Tim closed his eyes, hating and loving how much he was responding to this, and let out a long pained sound as all the cuts stung in unison.

 

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this,” Ra’s husked and used the tip of the knife to gently scrape away the tears sitting on Tim’s cheeks. The action didn’t break his skin but still Tim whimpered. His skin tingling and heart hammering at the sharp sensation just under his cheekbone. “Ever since I first saw you dance. The red glitter. The pink cheeks. How was I meant to look at you and not think about your blood?”

 

“Please…” Tim said again. It seemed the only word he was capable of just then. “Please…”

 

Ra’s made a noise. Low. Hungry.

 

He reached out, took hold of Tim by the back of the neck and pulled.

 

Bound as he was he could do nothing but yelp in surprise as he fell forward onto his chest and knees. Arse sticking up in the air. The explicitness of the position enough to send a flesh surge of blood to his slowly stiffening dick which in turn made the nicks on his foreskin burn.

 

Ra’s moved around him with the speed of a striking cobra and Tim felt a finger slip passed the rim of his arsehole. The dry stretch was painful and he hissed through his teeth until the man withdrew. Ra’s went to the bedroom, came back, and a few moments later an icy cold river of lube flowed into him.

 

Ra’s used what felt like the whole bottle. Filling him until his insides heaved, smearing it around his hole until his rim felt incapable of ever closing again, and running it down the crevice until it dripped off the back of his balls into a puddle that was sure to stain the hotel’s expensive carpet. Tim breathed through it all, gasping when the man’s fingers grazed against his prostate, and moaning when something took their place.

 

Something slim but bulbous at the end that was oddly weighted as if…

 

Realisation stuck.

 

Ra’s had just put the hilt of the dagger in his arse.

 

Peeking over his shoulder he could see the knife sticking up like a tail. _Oh fuck._ Tim wished he could say the ridiculousness of it was enough to snap him out of the moment. Instead it finished the job of getting him hard as his mind spun around the understanding that he was being forced into this position by the other man. _Used_. He was being used, almost as an item of furniture, for the pleasure of Ra’s al Ghul.

 

A swishing sound snapped him back into the present and he twisted to look up as Ra’s now standing behind him. He held a long bamboo cane and grinned as he snapped it against the palm of his hand. The sound loud enough to make Tim flinch and give birth to a small sadistic smile that snaked across Ra’s lips.

 

“You’re not what I expected, little dragon.”

 

“H-huh?” He managed.

 

“The brat is fun,” the man said and brought the cane down across Tim’s arse.

 

His scream melted into a moan as it shifted the hilt of the blade inside him.

 

“So is the attention whore.”

 

Another strike. Another sob.

 

“But this… you’re being honest with me, aren’t you? This is who you truly are under all the fun and games. A perfect little masochist.”

 

Tim didn’t say anything as the cane came down on him a third time with a loud swish and snap. But he thought about it… somehow through everything that was happening to him he thought about it. Was he a masochist? A _real_ masochist? He didn’t think so. He didn’t really like pain. Pain hurt. What he loved was the loss of control. The feel of losing that control. The feel of having it ripped from his fingers or stolen – as Ra’s had done – through the careful application of fear.

 

Ra’s was a sadist. He could see that now. He could see it in the way the man’s eyes glowed as he brought the cane down again. How he seemed to get bigger as he heard Tim’s corresponding shriek of pain. How he seemed to feed of dolling out and watching him experience pain. But Tim wasn’t a masochist. He was a submissive… into bondage, discipline, and some play masochism… but a submissive first and foremost.

 

Perhaps that was why he paired so well with Jason. Jason, he suspected, enjoyed forcing people to submit to his will more than he enjoyed seeing them in pain. Sure, he used pain as part of that exchange and in a sexual situation that pain translated into a whole lot of things in the brain… but Jason was a dominant first. It was the power exchange be it given or forced.

 

And it was the power exchange that was really bringing Tim to the edge now.

 

He moaned as the man stuck him and tried in vain to wriggle away. He couldn’t. The rope held him better than any leather or chain and that helplessness left him feeling dizzy with desire as another blow cracked across the back of his thighs. When Tim arched to try and escape the feeling his bloodied nipples scraped against the carpet causing him to groan and rock back just as the cane came down again.

 

He was hard now. Undeniably hard. Inescapably hard.

 

“No! Please! I can’t— _ah!_ Too…”

 

Ra’s stepped forward and abandoned the big swing for a rapid _snap snap snap_ against Tim’s left thigh. The constant tempo didn’t leave his skin enough time to cool down and soon he was panting in agony. When he didn’t think he could take anymore the man transferred to his right thigh and – true to his form – quickly created an identical parade of welts to match those found on his left.

 

“Beautiful,” the man breathed.

 

Tim didn’t have anything in him but a heaving sob.

 

He heard rather than saw Ra’s put the cane back on the table and felt the knife get pulled from his body with brutal care. Ra’s took the moment to create two small cuts on the tip of each shoulder blade and another two on the back of his calves. Then he began to cut away the rope.

 

Somehow knowing the knife that had cut him was sharp enough to have such a functional purpose sent a fresh wave of fear through him. The thing sliding against him was real. Not just a BDSM toy but a tool. A weapon. Capable of killing with just a flick of the man’s wrist.

 

His skin prickled as the rope was sliced away, fingertips stinging with pain as the blood returned. For some reason he also felt inexplicably more exposed as his knees and elbows were freed as if by covering them with rope he was somehow holding onto some shred of modesty. That fell away as Ra’s muttered something in what sounded like Arabic and ordered Tim to his feet.

 

He stood. His arse burnt, his cuts stung, and his erection ached as the obscene amount of lube in him trickled out to run down his legs. Yet he was as turned on as he has been when Jason blindfolded him, wrapped the bullwhip around his neck, and growled ‘you know what this is don’t you, slut’ in his ear last week.

 

More. More because no matter what Jason did he could never be as taboo as Ra’s al Ghul was at that moment. A man old enough to be his grandfather, wielding a knife Bruce would never let into the manor, and paying him to have sex with him. He was a whore. For the first time in his life he _really was_ a whore. Not a stripper. Not a kinky performer. Not even a porn star.

 

A whore.

 

That knowledge almost made him come there and then.

 

“Sofa,” the man instructed. “Lie on your back. I want to see that tattoo while I fuck you.”

 

Tim shook and staggered to the edge of the couch. He felt both wonderfully disgustingly wretched and awkward as he fell back on the cushions and – somehow still finding the blood to blush – brought his right knee up to his chest. He left the left down so the view of the coiling black dragon snaking along his hip and curling into his thigh was unobstructed.

 

Ra’s stared at him like a predator looking at prey and shrugged off his long grey robe. He was naked beneath it and very aroused.

 

Tim stared at the man’s erection for longer than was probably acceptable. It was just like his knife. Long and curved. It was circumcised and sprouted from a thatch of dark hair which Tim shouldn’t find as strange as he did. He was too used to the ‘bald as a baby’ porn star look all the players at the manor sported.

 

Ra’s approached, slapped Tim once on his smarting thighs, and tugged at his butchered nipples. The shock of pain jerked was acute and it took all of his strength to keep his leg up. But he did. He was too turned on now to let pain override the need to have a cock inside him. He was too enamoured by the power of this man to ruin his submission by not holding position.

 

Ra’s laughed. Said something. At that moment Tim couldn’t tell what it was. Couldn’t even tell if it was in English or not. All his energy was dedicated to holding himself open as he fought of the flick, scrape, and pinch of the other man’s fingers against the bloodied cuts. First his nipples, then his lip, and finally hid dick and balls.

 

It was then, as the man pinched the head of Tim’s cock hard enough to make him scream, that he finally entered him.

 

Bare. That shouldn’t have excited him as much as it did. He always had sex bare. _Always_. He’d never even opened a condom packet let alone used one. But knowing this man was a businessman and not a porn star somehow made that small detail perverse. _Filthy_.

 

He moaned and used his legs to encourage the man in deeper. Harder.

 

Ra’s responded by bending forward to suck on his cut bottom lip and driving into him with a vicious snap of hip. Hard. Fast. With a wild urgent fury that a man his age shouldn’t possess.

 

“You’re mine, little dragon. You’re _mine_.”

 

Tim let out a pained groan and clutched at the fabric of the sofa even as it chaffed agonisingly against the twin cuts on his back. Those two right on his shoulder blades that he suddenly knew Ra’s placed there just for this. Just so he would be feeling them as he was fucked down into the sofa.

 

He had never felt so full in his life than when he was stuffed full of that man’s cock and what felt like an ocean of lube that was sloshing back and forth inside him with every thrust. He wanted to get up and go wash some of it out. He wanted to tell the man to stop pressing so heavily on his stomach. He wanted to be on top so the lube would flow out of him as they fucked. But, more than anything else, he wanted to be Ra’s al Ghul’s property. He wanted to be used by the man no matter how awkward and uncomfortable. He wanted to feel like furniture that would serve its purpose without complainant. He wanted to satisfy his customer because _he was a whore_.

 

_I am a whore. I am a whore. I am a whore. I am a…_

 

Tim came. It was a violent orgasm that ripped without any of the usual precursors through is body to seize up his stomach and send ribbons of come spurting up against Ra’s abdomen. If the other man even noticed he gave no sign instead focusing on leaving twin scratch marks down each of Tim’s upper arms. He kept fucking him at a punishing pace; that wickedly curved cock abusing his inner walls in a way not even Dick’s infamously long member did.

 

By the time Ra’s did come Tim was getting hard again, dizzy with the perverse pleasure of what he was doing – all the things _wrong_ he was doing – and the feel of his aching and full body being forced without remorse to take more. More sensation, more pain, and more _fluid_.

 

Tim moaned as he felt the man’s semen spray into him in three bursts. One splash for the last three frantic thrusts. He was amazed he could even feel it around everything else threatening to overwhelm his senses. The sting of his cuts, the smell of sex, and the sight of the man that had been obsessed with him since his first night in Wayne Manor orgasming above him with a deep bellied groan.

 

Ra’s didn’t withdraw right away. It was as if he knew it was uncomfortable for Tim and so held the position for as long as possible – forced Tim to hold the position for his pleasure – and gently touched the dragon at his hip. The soft contact after the brutality of their scene together almost made him start crying again. The tenderness inexplicably painful in a way the knife was not.

 

Ra’s chuckled. He didn’t say a word. Not then. He just picked Tim up – pulling out of him as he did so – and carried him bodily into the bathroom. Tim didn’t protest as the man filled the massive bath and then ordered him in with a jerk of his head. He watched smoky ribbons of blood curl away from him as he settled into the water and waited while older man washed himself off. When they were both clean again Ra’s pulled him from the tub, smeared an inhumane amount of antiseptic around his cuts, and covered them with crisp white gauze.

 

“When will they be gone?” He asked as he watched the man wrap a bandage around the tip of his dick… almost like a chastity device.

 

“Soon,” Ra’s promised. “Not before your show with The Red Hood this Friday.” He grinned, clearly viciously pleased that the world would be seeing the marks _he_ left… marks clearly not in The Red Hood’s or even Big Dick Grayson’s MO. Marks not given to him on any stage or set in Wayne Manor. There would be gossip. There would be speculation. No one would guess it was a guest that had stolen away the dragon and put a blade to his flesh.

 

“That was better than I imagined,” Ra’s said as he took him by the hand and pulled him back out into the living room.

 

For the first time since walking in the front door Tim managed to find Timmy Drake’s voice. “ _Hm._ I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He flashed a sharp smile and took his hand back. “Red Hood is going to be _so_ jealous. Mr Wayne doesn’t let him cut me.” _Or, more accurately, **I’ve** never let him cut me despite him always asking on the contracts._ “What do you think? Do I look pretty with your cuts?”

 

Ra’s looked surprised for a moment before letting his eyes rake over him one more time. “Yes, Drake. You look divine.”

 

The use of his persona’s last name instead of the nickname ‘little dragon’ did not escape Tim’s notice. The man had spotted the character mask slipping into place and was acknowledging that he was speaking to a persona rather than a person. Tim was fine with that. In the wake of that scene he needed to create some distance. Remind himself he could stand on his own two feet. Take back his power as quickly as he gave it away.

 

“What do you usually do for aftercare?” Ra’s asked.

 

“Get paid,” he answered with brutal honesty.

 

“Well,” Ra’s gestured to the envelope sitting on the coffee table.

 

Tim looked at it. Looked at the bills he could see spilling out of it. A stack of brand new Benjamin Franklins. Crisp and green. Even for him it was a lot of money. More than he would usually make in a week working even on the upper floors of Wayne Manor.

 

He walked instead towards his pile of clothes sitting on top of his shoes by his backpack. It took him only a few moments to dress and a few more to kick on the aging sneakers. When he picked up his bag and moved toward the door Ra’s called out.

 

“Don’t you want the money?”

 

“No,” he answered honestly. “I got what I came for.” He looked at the older man and smiled. “Thank you.”

 

The man looked surprised but flattered. “You are welcome. Anytime.”

 

“No,” Tim shook his head. “Just this one time.” Without another word he turned and left.

 

His mind once more returned to his autobiography as he walked down the hall towards the elevator. To this chapter sitting small and strange somewhere in the middle. He knew how he would start it. With an apology. Not to his mother, not to his priest, and not even to his God.

 

 _I’m sorry Bruce,_ he would write. _But you can’t fulfil all my sexual fantasies._ He pressed the button to summon the lift and watched as the doors dinged open. _You can’t give me everything I need. You can’t be the sole controlling force in my kinky life._ He stepped inside and pressed the ground floor button. _Sometimes that person has to be me. Sometimes the scene needs to be real._ Felt his stomach lurch as the elevator began to drop. _Sometimes – just sometimes – I need to break the rules._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! This AU is a really interesting one for me as I feel there is more left to say in it but am not sure what shape that 'more' might take. Perhaps one day I'll be able to answer that question but until then I asked for and received a couple of prompts for scenes on my [tumblr](http://evilpixiea.tumblr.com/post/138597052635/i-love-the-boy-with-the-dragon-tattoo-the-world). This is the first of those two prompts and the second I hope to be able to get out to you guys sometime this week. It involves another pairing I have never written before which is also a bit of a May-December relationship. ;-) Stay tuned!


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